On Monday
by Haywire
Summary: Max and Logan's tension build... post Rising


Title: On Monday

Author: Haywire Production

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I wish Logan was, but I'm not so lucky. No infringement intended.

Summary: Max and Logan's tension build. Post Rising'.

Notes: Enjoy!

*****

On Monday

On Wednesday he rode my motorcycle. His face lit up like a little boy as I helped him on, happy and excited, not the sour cat he was yesterday, skulking off to lick his wounds alone. I get angry sometimes, at his inability to admit or even acknowledge he's hurt, but then again, I'm one to talk. I guess I don't blame him, for wanting to preserve what's left of that whole macho' ideology. So today I rode behind him, letting him go fast. I hung on tight, letting my hands slide up under his jacket, knowing that hours before he ran an electric current through my body to save my life, and a day before I shared my blood to rescue his. He bit down on his lip as he gunned the engine and I leaned closer to feel the thrum of his blood, like electricity, coursing through him.

On Friday we shared a bottle of pre-pulse Bordeaux on his couch. His hair was still wet when I came in; he had recently been out. He was quiet, but the smile that evaded his lips shone in his eyes.

"Where's your chair?" I asked.

"In the kitchen."

We ate quietly, comfortably, both watchful of the other. More than once our fingers brushed and we started, then pulled away. We met again on the couch and he pulled me against his chest. I fought the impulse to struggle. I let his arms encircle me and felt the vibrations on my back when he laughed at something I said. On Friday, he was quiet and as the rain wreaked havoc on our broken city outside the window, a lump of apprehension formed in my stomach.

"Gotta bounce," I said later, standing.

He offered of course, but I declined. It followed me like a wake as I left, the acrid scent of fear.

On Saturday I stayed away. I turned my apprehension into anger and worked with fervor at cleaning up the shards of broken glass and stuffing books and clothing into boxes at Cindy's. I was angry at the Reds, for doing this to my best friend, angry at myself, for putting her in danger, and, irrationally, angry at Logan for being right. I closed a box, stood, and kicked it hard so that it lurched violently across the floor toward the door. Cindy's hand closed over my arm.

"Better take a break, boo."

We cleared a place on the floor and sat down. Cindy unwrapped two sandwiches and offered one out to me. I waved it away.

"Don't tell me you genetically enhanced humans don't eat either."

"I'm not hungry." My eyes stubbornly bore holes into the floorboards in front of me. Cindy sighed.

"It's Logan, isn't it."

I have to give her credit. Even with the secret I've been hiding from her for so long, she does know me well. But as much as I want to curl up in her arms and blurt out all my irrational ramblings and cry, I won't. I won't because I can't. I don't know how.

"Believe me, I'm no expert on lovers' spats, especially heterosexual ones, but you can't give up thins guy, and not just cause he's rich and cute and whatever."

I searched her face earnestly.

"Do you like him?"

She smiled at me, through layers of dust lit by the sunlight flickering through the curtains.

"Yeah. I like him."

She always comes through for me. Maybe things will be different, now that she knows the truth about me, but she'll always be my girl.

"Go back to him, Max."

On Sunday I am still afraid as I walk into his apartment and throw my jacket onto a chair.

"You paged?" I call.

"In here," he answers, and I find him in front of his computer, typing furiously.

"What's up?" I ask, and unconsciously put my hand on his shoulder.

"I got a head's up from the Seattle PD. The three other chips have been recovered.

"That's great," I say, but it doesn't feel nearly as good as I sound.

"I also got a tip from Matt Sung about a group of cultists actually hired by the government and using kids to"

I faze out then, letting my mind reflexively record the pertinent information, like it was made to, as Logan gets down to business and into save the world' mode.

I help him down and into his car soon after and we drive off to who knows where so I can kick some bad guy ass and Logan can sum it all up in a cable hack tomorrow and be satisfied for a while until he finds some other downtrodden citizens to rescue.

It's dark when we get there and as I reach for the handle he says,

"You sure you're okay with this Max?"

I am about to shoot out another Manticore quip I had lined up and then go get the job done, but something stops me, and I turn to him.

"When, you know, you're completely better," I motion at his legs "You won't need me any more then, right?"

"I'll always need you, Max. Even when I can run I'll never be able to run as fast as you." He laughs a little, "You're the superhero."

"Superhero," I repeat, softly.

"Max, you don't have to if you don't want to." He says, and really sounds like he means it.

I don't want to, but I go anyway.

On Sunday, we're silent. I try to be encouraging as he walks with cautious steps. I hold out my hand and he grasps it to steady himself, but he feels very far away.

"You're the superhero," Is what he said yesterday, and it runs through my mind over an over. He's wary, conscious of a rift, but we remain silent. He has put immeasurable distance between us. I can't help feeling that he sees me as something I'm not, that I'll never quite be able to live up to the picture he has of me in his head.

On Monday, he calls.

"I have a surprise for you," he says, and then adds quickly, "It's not jewelry." I can hear the barely contained excitement in his voice, and although fear still clings to me like heavy perfume, I go to him.

The penthouse is filled with candles. It's not like the eclectic array of multicolor stubs and whatever we can lay our hands on that Kendra puts out whenever the electricity cuts out. Logan's is more deliberate. And beautiful. I follow the sound of violins to the living room and look up at the ceiling where a mystical pattern is formed by the flickering lights.

"Surprise."

I turn and he is standing beside me, grinning. I frown, trying to discern his intent.

All of the sudden the music swells and I feel his arms circle me. I tense, but his fingers are entwining with mine, lifting them.

"Dance with me," he whispers.

My fingertips tingle with awareness, as if this is all too familiar.

"I can't." It escapes as a breath, barely audible.

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because I'm scared."

The bitch in me has crumpled and crawled deep into someplace for the time being, leaving me raw and overexposed even though his hand is reassuring at the small of my back.

"I won't let go."

"That's not it," I whisper, shaking my head.

"What are you scared of, Max? Tell me."

I wouldn't have said it otherwise, wouldn't have made the admission if he weren't so close, so incredibly intoxicating.

"Of this. Of us."

His hand falls away from mine and his deft, gentle fingers brush away a lock of hair from my face.

"Max, when I look at you, I see this. A beautiful and intelligent young woman. I see you. I'm not asking you to be something you're not.

I smile through tears. "I'm not a superhero."

"You don't have to be." He says.

On Monday, Logan tells me he loves me.

On Tuesday I awake surrounded by him. His fingers are on my face, his thumb tracing lightly over my lips.

"Regardless of the date, you must have been born on a Tuesday," he says.

"Why?" I ask, not yet fully out of the sleeping world.

"Monday's child is full of grace, Tuesday's child is fair of face."

Fin.


End file.
